


it was love at first fight.

by thecopperkid



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Classic Billy-Apologizes-At-A-Party Fic, Fluff and Angst, Friends With Benefits, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mixtapes/Playlists, Steve Harrington's Infinite Playlist V2, mentions of eating disorders
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 14:12:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17143235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecopperkid/pseuds/thecopperkid
Summary: Alright, he’sgottaask. It’s more of that word-vomit. Lindsay Lohan-style.“Why’re you being so nice to me? I beat the shit out of you.”It’s dark, so Billy can’t read Steve’s face, but he wishes he could.“I don’t really know,” he says. “I can be meaner to you, if you want.”*Steve's leaving for college, Billy's gonna be stuck behind for his senior year in Hawkins, and that means whatever this is, it has to stop. It'll tear Billy up if they don't put an end to it.But then Steve burns Billy a CD, each song titled as a memory they've shared together, and Billy isn't surewhatto think.





	it was love at first fight.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keptinqueer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keptinqueer/gifts).



> Happy Holidays keptinqueer! A lil wip for you <3 omg ive wanted to yell at you about this forever. your prompt gave me sooo many ideas, i love it so much, and ill be covering a lot of it throughout these little vignettes.
> 
> listen. also. you mentioned "mixtapes" on your wishlist, and you came to the right fucking person. or, maybe you didn't? the point is. I have a playlist for you. obviously. and that became the framework for this fic, which ive wanted to do for a while. thanks for that!
> 
> title from "love at first fight" by tyler cole

It wasn’t supposed to get like this.

Billy has found, however, that things rarely happen the way they’re supposed to.

He’d sworn to himself that walking away would be as easy as falling together was, that he wasn’t going to get attached, that  _it was just sex,_  but.

Steve’s leaving for college, and he’s left Billy this  _stupid fucking_  burned disc like it’s 2007, and Billy just can’t deal with all of it.

The disc comes with tracklisting, written on paper in the inside cover with one of those fine-tip Sharpies.

Only, they don’t really look like song titles. They’re numbered as such, but it’s just a bunch of fucking words in Steve’s boyish scrawl, ones Billy doesn’t even care to read.

That’s a dirty trick anyway, because Steve knows Billy. Knows that he might write off the disc completely if Steve had written actual song titles. Would mock and complain and snap the thing, probably. But because Billy’s inherently curious, snoopy as all hell, there’s something in him that  _wants_  to know what’s burned on here.

On the shining surface of the disc, it says,  _“BECAUSE UR TOO CHEAP FOR SPOTIFY.”_ It looks a little aggressive, like it’d been done in spite.

What the fuck is this anyway? Is this some sort of apology? It makes Billy’s stomach flip, because he knows Steve doesn’t owe him one.

He tosses it in the little pocket behind the front seat, and he forgets about it for a good week before finally caving.

Billy’s at a party tonight, and whatever self control he’d had, it was washed away with that last shot he took.

He doesn’t even know whose house this is.

He’s wasted, and somehow he’s got it in his head that it’d be a great idea to come home like this, get in his dad’s face. Fucking put him in his place for once. It’s sorta like he wants to take out what he’s feeling on someone, because he can’t take being at that frivolous party without Steve there bitching about it, and he knows if he goes home and causes a scene, his dad will satisfyingly scream right back at him.

But then he can practically hear Steve’s voice in his head.

He thinks of that  _stupid_  fucking CD. Because he remembers there was a fucking  _song_  for this. His eye had caught on that track specifically.

And he knows he shouldn’t drive, as he is.

Steve’s taken his keys away when he’d had a lot less to drink than he’s had tonight.

Steve’s taken his keys away when he’d had  _nothing_  to drink. When he was just  _angry._ He’d hide them on Billy until he cooled down, when his head had cleared.

So he  _does_  get behind the wheel, he  _does_  turn the engine over, but he doesn’t shift gears. He doesn’t reverse out of the driveway.

He just sits there. Stormy as fuck, hands on the steering wheel, gripped so tight it makes his fingers hurt, makes his rings indent into his skin, dig into the bone.

Billy only lets go to fumble for the case, fish it out of the pocket for the fucking track listing.

Under the dim lighting from the street, he squints at the messy handwriting. The track’s scribbled down as a warning. Telling him not to do anything stupid? He scoffs at the implication, jabs his finger into the buttons, skips rather aggressively until he reaches Track 6, accidentally hits it so hard he goes to 7, has to flip back to 6.

He’ll humor Steve Harrington, tonight.

 

*

Track 6 -  _“listen to this before you do something really fucking stupid.”_

_( can i waste all your time here on the sidewalk? / can i stand in your light just for a while? )_

 

The first time they actually hang out, it’s not really meant to be hanging out.

Billy’s trashed at one of Tina’s parties. As usual.

And Steve fucking Harrington is there, acting  _suspicious._ He’s not drinking, or if he was, he isn’t now. He’s just sitting there outside in the cold, on the last step of the stairs. Looking pretty fucking  _miserable_  for the jock king of the school.

It’s not like him. Come to think of it, he hasn’t really been himself since that night.

See, Billy isn’t  _looking_  for Steve in so many words, but he does happen upon him. He’s coming down the stairs from where he’d been wandering and snooping around in the bedrooms upstairs, and he can see Steve’s back through the little window on the door. His bomber jacket and his fluffy hair give him away.

Billy’s too fucked up to care about discretion. He slinks out through the porch door, and when he obstructs the light, it makes Steve turn to look.

“I’m sorry about your face,” Billy utters, impulsively, before he can convince himself out of it. The door snaps shut behind him, and the party chatter muffles.

Steve regards him for a moment. He’s smoking a cig, and it’s smoldering silently between his fingers. He’s got an eyebrow cocked, like he’s not sure he believes Billy.

 _Billy_  wouldn’t really believe Billy.

“Thanks.”

Billy’s standing, still, hating how he feels so awkward and hulking, in comparison to Steve who’s hunched up. He crouches, uninvited, to sit on the step two above Steve’s, so they’re staggered.

“What’re you even doing here?”

He doesn’t know if he means  _‘outside,’_  or  _‘at this party.’_

And another thing? He didn’t mean for that to sound mean, but it does -- it comes out ugly. He’s blunt. He’s drunk. It’s honest.

But Steve doesn’t seem too offended. He laughs, like maybe he’s been wondering that, too.

“It just felt fucking dumb, staying at my house,” he says, after a while, shares to Billy what’s left of the cig. A peace offering. “When everybody’s here. Having fun.”

Billy waits before accepting it. Like he thinks it’s poisoned. He plucks it from his fingers and watches the smoke coil up, ghostlike, in the frigid air.

“But you don’t want to be here,” Billy says, and if he’s slurring a little, he covers it up fairly well. He presses the filter to his lips, and drags.

“Is it that obvious?” Steve says. “Guess I’m a pretty shitty actor. There’s a reason I stopped doing drama club freshman year.”

 _“Drama_  club,” Billy repeats. He blows smoke out through the corner of his mouth. “How did I not know that? Of course your  _princess-ass_  did drama club.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck off. I only did it because I thought I would get girls.”

“How’d that work out for you?”

Steve sort of smiles. “Apparently not very well.”

Billy watches Steve, watching the street. A house across the way, adorned with horrific LED icicle lights, blinking asynchronously in a pattern Billy’s sure is going to give Steve a seizure if he stares too long.

“So why  _are_  you here? Really. If you’re just gonna sit alone.”

“I guess I’d rather sit  _here,_  by myself, than at  _home,_  by myself. If that makes sense?”

“It does,” Billy says, shrugging. “King Steve has  _FOMO.”_

Steve shakes his head, kind of snorts. “Yeah. That must be it.”

Billy feels a little bad. In the yellowy porch lighting, he can see the discoloration of fresh scars on Steve’s forehead. Pretty, perfect Steve didn’t have those before him.

“Do you wanna get out of here?” Billy asks.

God, that sounds fucking cliche, but he’s always wanted to  _say_  that. It comes out, like most things he says, before he can control it, stop it, understand it, even.

Steve crushes out the end of the cig with his shoe. Smushes it into a slick spot of ice beneath the step.

“Are you gonna hit me again? Because if you wanna do that, we can just stay here, I mean. At least, here, you have an audience. I know you like the attention.”

Billy’s stomach knots up.

“Hey. Look. I’m really, really sorry. I am.”

He doesn’t know how much more sorry he can  _be._ It makes him physically sick.

Steve doesn’t look back at Billy when he asks, “Where you trying to go?” So that’s a  _yes,_ he  _does_ wanna get out of here.

Billy thinks.

At home, it was easier. If he wanted to be by himself with someone, the beach was simple. Didn’t have to be a thing, didn’t have to be really  _hanging out,_  like. Just coexisting with someone there. Walking down to the pier and getting fries.

In Hawkins, it’s different. There’s nothing to  _do._

And it’s fucking cold.

“I was gonna say the beach,” Billy admits. “And then I remembered.”

Steve stands, turns toward him and stuffs his hands in his bomber. “We have the quarry.”

“It’s not really the same vibe,” Billy says, but he stands up, too.

“Dude, tell me about it, try growing up here,” Steve says. He spins on the patch of ice and starts walking toward his car parked on the side of the road. Billy follows. “That’s why, when I go to school? I’m going as far as I fucking  _can_  away from here.”

Billy sort of resents that, thinks that’s silly.

A lot of people their age say that shit, but to what avail? Who actually  _cares_  if you stay in the same town forever?

At least Steve has people around to support him. People who care about him. It’s not so bad.

“You think that will change your whole life?”

“No,” Steve says. “My life’s always gonna be kinda shitty, right? But at least, in Boston, it will be shitty with a view. Opportunities. Stuff to do.”

“Boston,” Billy hisses, like Steve’s crazy. “It’s cold there, too.”

Steve shrugs, unlocking his car. He walks round to the driver’s side. “I don’t mind the cold so much. You just gotta wear the right clothes. You get used to it.”

Billy’s not sure if that’s true. He hates shoveling. His dad always makes him do it, which seems pretty fucking unfair, when it wasn’t Billy’s idea to move here in the first place. He misses seeing palm trees, and cacti.

He likes when they have snow days, though. That’s one thing they didn’t have in California. Only school got cancelled once because of a bomb threat, which seemed cool at the time.

“You okay to drive?” Billy asks. He’s not sure why. He thinks that’s the thing he should probably ask.

“I don’t really drink, anymore.”

Steve seems pretty grim about that, so Billy’s not going to poke fun.

The guy’s so fucking weird. Shows up to a party he doesn’t wanna be at, and doesn’t even drink to deal with it.

“You’re fucking  _something,_  Harrington.”

They get in Steve’s car which is just as fucking cold inside as it is outside, somehow maybe  _colder,_ that dank cold that sinks into your bones. But before Steve even starts fucking with the heat, he’s already flipping through songs on his phone.

Billy would later come to find the one he chooses is by The Strokes.

Steve drops his phone into his lap and flicks his headlights on.

“This song sounds sad,” Billy says, scrunching up his nose as they pull out into the street.

“It isn’t,” Steve argues. “It’s _sick._  It’s pretty. Just listen to it. Wait ‘til the chorus.”

“I want a Big Mac.”

Steve eyes him as they roll up to the stop sign at the end of the street. “For real?”

“Why would I lie about that? I got the munchies. Look, you wanted something to do, right? I want a Big Mac. And a shake.”

Steve sort of rolls his eyes, but they’re heading toward the center of town, so Billy assumes Steve heard him out.

Under the bright lights in the McDonald’s, Billy’s never felt more like he was under a microscope than when Steve watches him eat his Big Mac, but he doesn’t care.

Billy’s super gross about it, he knows. Like,  _groaning_  into it, because that sauce is so fucking good.

“You eat like you’re starving,” Steve notes.

“I  _am_  fucking starving. I shoulda bought two.”

Steve’s eating fries, a little uncertain. He’s absently scrolling his phone. “That’s like, ten thousand calories,” he says, in distaste.

Billy feels his cheeks go hot. He drops the burger back in the box on the tray,  _pissed,_  because unknowingly, Steve’s kind of struck a sore spot with Billy.

His weight’s never been easy for him. Kids used to tease him for being fat. That fucked him up pretty good. He used to make himself fucking  _sick_  all the time to get the weight off. Was pretty unhealthy, before he learned that going to the gym was a thing.

(And on top of that, somewhere along the way, people who get bullied  _become_  the bully, right? That’s what they say, at least. He’s working on it.)

“Whatever. I’ll just go extra hard at the gym tomorrow.”

Steve looks up from his phone, all wide doe eyes, like he’d had no idea he’d offended Billy.

“Dude, I mean. I don’t care what you eat.”

“I let myself have one of these a year,” Billy says. “Thanks for making it  _no_  fucking fun.”

Steve picks up on the venom, fights to mend over the wound. “You look really  _good,_  you know. I  _wish_  I was that built, I just -- I didn’t mean anything by it.”

He’s so fucking nice, it’s awful.

Billy reaches across the table and takes one of Steve’s fries. He thinks that looks something like forgiveness, to Steve.

When they get back to the car, Steve starts it up and puts it in reverse. “Where’s your house?”

Billy waits for a moment. Doesn’t say anything.

It dawns on him that he really doesn’t want to go home right now, more so than usual. It’s  _more_  than just wanting to avoid his dad. More than the fact that he doesn’t want to come in reeking like booze and weed.

It’s like. He doesn’t want to have to end this, because he’s not sure that this would ever happen again. It seems like a fluke, and he wants to milk it. Take advantage of it. He knows he fucked up that night at the Byers’. This is something like a second chance.

“I don’t really  _wanna_  go back, yet,” Billy says. Feels so fucking awkward saying that. “If that’s cool.”

Steve nods. He doesn’t pry. “You can come over my place, if you want.”

Whatever playlist Steve had put on start looping, and they’re back at that same song again as Steve drives back down Main Street, toward his house. It feels like fate, like a proper beginning and ending, even though it's really just algorithms, probably.

 

*

Track 2 -  _“makes me think of that first night - i should have gone for it.”_

_( can i sleep inside? / i know you’re nervous though / so i promise to leave before your mother wakes up in the morning )_

 

When they get back from McDonald’s, Billy doesn’t really know what to do with himself.

He knew Steve’s house was nice, it had to be.  _King Steve,_  and everything.

But he feels a lot smaller in there than he thought, and it’s mainly because he feels he’s overstaying his welcome.

He wonders what Steve’s parents thought when they saw what Billy’d done to him. He wonders if they even know it was Billy who did it. What they’d think of him, if they saw him here, in their house.

“Come on,” Steve prompts, throwing his coat over the railing carelessly. “I’m wiped the fuck out.”

Billy’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up as Steve ascends. He feels so  _drunk_  all of a sudden.

Eventually he takes the hint and toes out of his boots. Sets them, somewhat neatly, in the tray by the door, and pads up the stairs, too.

God, does he have to say it? He thinks he’s made it pretty clear.

He’s  _so_  into Steve.

He  _has_  been, ever since he first saw him. And now he’s in Steve’s house, presumably going up to sleep in his room, and it just feels sort of wrong, like Billy doesn’t deserve this, shouldn’t get to be treated like this.

Steve leads the way into the room at the end of the hall. Flicks a switch on the wall and the light on his bedside table illuminates everything in a warm glow.

He’s inside changing out of his crewneck into something to sleep in. A local rec shirt. He gets something for Billy, too, tosses it at him when Billy walks in. When he catches it, he’s hit with Steve’s scent on it. Some kind of cologne.

“I figure it sucks sleeping in leather,” Steve explains.

Billys unfurls the shirt. He’s laughing at the image printed on the front. Comedy and tragedy masks.

 _“Hawkins Players,”_  he reads. “No fucking way. This is like, an artifact. I really hope you got pussy for this.”

Steve’s laughing now. “Drowning in it. No, seriously though, fucking backstage is the  _worst._ We were doing  _The Crucible,_  too, so the chicks were wearing fucking pilgrim clothes.”

“Sounds hot as fuck.”

“It got better, dude, they made me wear eyeliner,” Steve says.

“I would do some fucked up shit to see you like that.”

He really  _would._

“You can probably find pictures on Twitter somewhere, if you really wanna see it. For a while, everybody made fun of me for being gay, and stuff.”

That sends a jolt through Billy that he’s not sure how to describe, but he tries to breeze over it. He feels exposed. Like Steve knows, somehow.

Billy strips out of his jacket, and his button down, too. Folds them over the chair at Steve’s desk. Throws on the ridiculous drama club shirt. It’s a little tight on him.

“Very cute,” Steve says. “You look like such a  _thespian.”_

“I don’t know what that means,” he says, because.  _Drunk._

“It means ‘actor,’ kinda.”

And Billy would like to think he  _is_  a good actor.

Steve gets in bed, relaxes against the white sheets and stack of pillows. He pushes some of the pillows Billy’s way.

“You can take these,” he says. “And I’ve got plenty of blankets lying around. You can sleep in here. Or the couch, downstairs. My parents are away for the night. No one’s home ‘til tomorrow morning, so you can go wherever.”

Billy feels a little disappointed.

Something in him was hoping for something. For anything. He’s not sure what.

But that’s pretty much the end of the night, if Steve’s already saying it’s time for bed.

“You trying to kick me out, Harrington?” he says. “What if I want the bed, too?”

Against his better judgement, he just fucking does it.

He gets in bed with Steve. Sits across from him, as far as possible, on the opposite corner of the bed, but in the bed nonetheless.

Steve looks a little surprised, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “Sure. Just. Always thought you fucking  _hated_  me, so. I just figured.”

Billy stretches out on his side, facing Steve, and bunches the pillows up underneath his head. He watches Steve carefully.

He says, “I don’t hate you.”

“I don’t hate you, either.”

Is it sad how relieved Billy is to hear that?

They’re quiet long enough that Steve turns the light off on his bedside table.

They lie top to tail, with Billy’s feet at the head of the bed, and Steve’s at the foot of the bed. Nothing more fucking innocent and prudish than this. Billy feels like a little kid.

He wants, more than anything, to close the distance between them. To crawl over to Steve, to kiss him, to touch him, to feel his body underneath his clothes.

But he doesn’t move, because the facade of being someone he’s really not, that’s more important to him than trying to put himself out there for what he really wants.

So he just asks, “When do you want me to leave? So your parents don’t see me. I’ll set my alarm.”

Steve seems like he thinks that’s an odd thing to say, but Billy doesn’t think it’s strange. He’s snuck people out his window a million times at four in the morning, after only getting to lie with them for an hour or two.

“There’s no rush,” Steve says. “Just wake me up when you’re ready. I’ll give you a ride.”

Alright, he’s  _gotta_  ask. It’s more of that word-vomit. Lindsay Lohan-style.

“Why’re you being so nice to me? I beat the shit out of you.”

It’s dark, so Billy can’t read Steve’s face, but he wishes he could.

“I don’t really know,” he says. “I can be meaner to you, if you want.”

“No. This is okay.”

“Okay,” Steve says.

“Thanks,” Billy says, curling up, speaking to the blackness of the room. It’s easier to say that with the lights off.

“For what?”

“For letting me stay over. Like. I don’t think you get it, but like. This helped, a lot.”

Steve adjusts in the bed, yawns. “No problem, man. It’s like a sleepover. I can braid your hair. We can stay up late, talking about  _boys,_ and shit.”

That’s funnier to Billy than it’s meant to be.

 

*

Track 9 - _“i’ll never forget that_ _this_ _fucking song was playing”_

_( don’t take me tongue tied / don’t kiss me goodnight )_

 

Billy’s been hanging out with Steve a lot more, now, ever since that night. They text all the time. Practice has even been peaceful these days. They go to the mall together and get Panda Express and talk about which concert they should go to next. Steve’s even started drinking again, so he can get fucked up with Billy. Says it used to give him nightmares when he drank, but when Billy stays the night, it doesn’t seem to happen anymore. That knowledge is really fucking precious to Billy.

So they’re at Joyce’s house because the kids are having a fire there with Nancy and Jonathan, and Steve said maybe it won’t be so bad if they go hang out there together. He even invited Carol and Tommy, like he thought that it would convince Billy.

Billy would like it better if it was just them.

“Come on,” Steve coaxes. “It’ll be fun.”

Billy’s skeptical of that, but it’s not like he has anything better to do.

It _is_ kind of fun. They drink pumpkin beer even though it’s kind of out of season, and the kids babble about their nerdy shit. Billy sits close by the fire, burning newspapers and sticks, because that’s gotta be one of his top five favorite activities.

Later, the kids have gone off inside to do whatever stupid board game shit it is they do, and the six of them stay out there. Carol’s usurped control of the Bluetooth speaker, which kind of sucks, because she’s playing like, old hits from 2011? Fucking Kesha, and shit. Carol’s drinking her beer, all propped up on Tommy’s lap in a yard chair, swinging her leg and laughing. Nancy and Jonathan are sitting on an old couch together, and he’s got his arm around her as she cuddles into him.

It feels weird that they’re the only single ones here, sitting apart in their own yard chairs.

“Pyro,” Steve says, sort of affectionately, kicking his Nike into Billy’s boot.

Billy likes the way the reflection of the fire glows in Steve’s eyes, twitching and dancing.

“I know. Fire’s cool.”

He can tell Steve’s kind of wasted, because he keeps touching him. Won’t stop putting his arm around him. Is always rubbing a palm over his knee.

Billy’s mom used to tell him that if a girl liked you, she’d touch your knees a lot. Some weird kind of body language, he guesses. He wonders if the same rule applies here.

Steve’s touchy, and Billy’s fucking starving for it. Wants it so bad.

No one seems to notice, though. They’re all sated with beer, snuggled up to their respective partners.

“You trying to get _laid_ tonight, Harrington?” he says under his breath.

Steve retracts his hand, looks down at his feet. At the stick he’d been using to roast marshmallows. It’s all white and fluffy and sticky.

“Sorry,” he says.

“No, I don’t -- I don’t _mind.”_

Steve’s quiet. Thinking.

He says that thing back to Billy. That one Billy _loves_ the sound of. “We could get out of here. For a little while.”

And Billy’s _aching_ for that, to be alone.

So he gets to his feet and stalks off toward the Byers’ shed, and without being asked, Steve’s in tow. Padding along through the hardened brownish grass, frozen over.

Billy pushes inside, feeling like nothing is real because of the buzz of alcohol. He waits up against the nearest surface for Steve to close the door behind them.

He doesn’t really know what either of them are fucking _doing._

They’re in the dark, with Billy’s back up against a workbench, and Steve’s got his arms on either side of Billy, caging him in. Billy can smell artificial pumpkin on Steve’s breath.

Then Steve throws him off.

“Wanna know something?” he asks. When Billy nods, he goes on. “I know it’s sorta middle school, but. I’ve kissed everybody here. I mean. Except you.”

It’s _so_ fucking forthright and obvious, but it makes Billy’s stomach twist up with jealousy he can’t explain.

He pictures it. Of course Steve’s been with Wheeler, Billy knew that. And Carol, too, like, leave it to _King Steve_ to get around.

But kissing _everybody_ here? Steve Harrington is a flirt, a tease

 _Tommy_ and _Jonathan,_ like. Billy assumes it’s just Spin the Bottle high school shit, but still.

He feels really hopeful, suddenly, and he’s insulated by the warm confidence of cinnamon-pumpkin beer, so.

“Guess I’m not one of your little conquests,” Billy says.

“Guess not,” Steve breathes, but he pushes their hips together, and Billy doesn’t stop him.

“Carol, Tommy, Nancy, _and_ Jonathan,” Billy lists, wanting to reach out and touch Steve, but waiting for the go-ahead. “Jesus. I'm failing to see your  _type,_ here. You’re a slut, but, I don’t want to miss out, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Billy, and he feels his heart racing, his cock filling out. “I mean. They must call you _King Steve_ for a reason."

Steve's grinning. "I think you might be the only one who calls me that, anymore."

They’re sort of playing chicken for a while. Steve’s leaning in, looking Billy dead in the eye, getting dangerously close to his mouth, and Billy is drawn in like a magnet. They breathe each other’s air for a moment, heads cocked to the side, lips parted. Billy’s heart is in his throat, now.

“Tongue Tied” is playing from across the yard, and Steve’s drunk, Billy’s drunk, it’s _just_ the right vibe.

“Come on, this is stupid,” Steve says, dismissive, and he catches his lips. Billy fusses, squirms, gives himself enough room that he could still push Steve to the fucking ground and say mean shit to him if it goes wrong, but Steve’s persistent.

Holds him there and kisses him ‘til Billy gives in, kisses back like he’s thirsty for it, fucking melting because it’s all he’s wanted and he didn’t have the fucking _balls_ to do it himself.

He’s fairly certain Steve has no idea what this means to Billy, but he’ll take it.

It’s a chaste kiss. There isn’t much movement of their lips, just pressing into each other, enough to feel the wetness inside their mouths. Pumpkin meeting pumpkin.

They pull apart and they’re looking into each other’s eyes, and Billy doesn’t know what the fuck to say right here.

Steve rests his forehead against Billy’s. Touches the small of his back under his jacket.

“Was that okay?”

“Yes,” Billy whispers. Because it’s sort of everything he’s ever fucking wanted, and he’s gonna be honest with Steve, because he wants to get as much as he can get.

He thinks of boys stronger than him, who pushed him into brick walls, and shoved their tongues and fingers and cocks down his throat. Of boys who took Billy into their dark bedrooms and touched him until he _swore_ he saw stars. Of getting sick with heartbreak, because they’d make him promise not to tell, and he knew he couldn’t if he wanted to, anyway, not with his dad around.

Billy won’t meet Steve’s eyes.

He wants to tell Steve the _extent_ of how okay it is. Wants to tell him he’s never had a fucking sexual thought about a chick in his goddamn life.

But maybe now’s not really the time for that kind of emotional burdening. They only just started hanging out.

“You’re a good kisser,” Steve notes, and Billy wants to scream.

But then, to cover it up, ‘cause he’s kind of lit, he’s like, “Wait, wait. So. _Jonathan?_ You kissed Jonathan, for real? You must be desperate.”

Steve’s laughing, chewing over his lip. “Dare’s a dare.”

Billy wants to say something really _cliched,_ like, _Dare you to kiss me again, then._

But he waits too long, pussies out of it, and the moment’s gone. Steve lets him go, and they wonder back toward the fire.

He scoots his chair closer to Billy’s when they sit back around the pit, and he cradles his arm around Billy’s shoulders, and Billy feels it in his chest -- knows he's _so_ fucked.


End file.
